It rains a lot here (1/7/20)

The sky has been washed clean. A little thunder does no harm. The water tank on the terrace is probably about to overflow. No ravens visit us in the rain,so I will write my first blog post. Somebody convinced me that writing a blog is not beyond my means (hello F, if you're reading this).We will test his theory.Let this be an introduction of sorts. I am nearly sixteen today. I will be nearly sixteen everyday until my birthday in October. Sixteen, is a very prolific age. At sixteen, you realize how the salt smells of the sea, and how hand-puppets are only improvised mittens. I write sometimes, and type seldom. I will not be rude today and leave that for the future. Raindrops have been assigned to Kamikaze suicide missions. You, dear reader, are my companion in this brutal realization. May we all survive. 

I will talk more sensibly in the future. There will be more sense in the grey pixel alphabets, because I will not talk about myself. I will talk, of the other characters in my story. I will tell you of all those who keep their stories tucked into their pericardium. Sometimes, I will tell fictional stories of fictional characters, from my yellow notebook that hasn't been burnt. 

Next,I will tell you the story of a hospital morgue,where corpses live on rent with steel scalpels. The angel in white tails, is their landlord, and he survives off post mortem reports. He is very fond of marble mannequins. Or maybe,I will tell you the story of a murdered mosquito. I have a lot of stories to tell.